


Broken Gods

by AccioGeorge (ShelbyVictoria)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyVictoria/pseuds/AccioGeorge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re all just broken gods, trying to put ourselves back together,” Caroline stated, as if she’d said that a thousand times before to a thousand different people, and who knows maybe she had. (An eventual Daryl/OC story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Hii, darlings! I must say, I'm quite excited to be posting this story. It's my first published work on AO3 and I'm hoping to take it far. Just a reminder than I don't own any part of this story other than the Original Character (OC) of Caroline. xx

The bark of the oak tree was rough against her already rugged hands. She stopped to catalog her surroundings, her situation. Caroline couldn’t hear her ‘friend’ anymore—the walkers had drowned out his pitiful cries with their feeding. Leaning up against the oak tree, Caroline adjusted her grip on her axe attempting to maintain good leverage despite the fresh blood mingling with sweat on her hands. Caroline breathed deeply, inhaling the humid air permanently tainted with the odor of decomposing flesh. 

She heard the roamers before she saw them. Heaving her weapon, she cut down the first two undead almost robotically, unfeeling and unwavering. The third was a young boy, first bitten on the neck by the discoloration of the rotten flesh; _He looks familiar_ , the thought flashed through her mind as she aimed for the neck. As she severed the head from the body on the third blow, she stopped caring. It didn’t matter anymore, her face was now splattered from the blood of the young boy anyway. 

The others would be occupied by her ‘companion’—his term, not Caroline’s—for a while at least, allowing her to continue virtually undetected down the small street that she used to live on.

These streets are hers, at least they were. They belonged to the nine-year-old Caroline with frizzy hair and braces, not to the twenty-seven-year-old who stood immobile on the lawn of her childhood friend’s home. Yet here she stood, twisting the only ring she still owned around her index finger staring at the small sanctuary.

The architecture was mid-century and it was just like she remembered: the heavy front door and the creaking hardwood leading into the living room. The obnoxious, oversized family photos that hung from the walls were still there, a layer of dust covering the faux smiles on the faces of the family she knew so well. Taking the large frame off the wall, Caroline beat it against the wall seeking to draw out anything else that could possibly be in the house. _Alone_ , she thought, _good._

Walking alongside the fireplace mantle, Caroline casually tipped each photo frame over with her finger as she passed, not minding the sound of glass shattering as it hit the hard ground. It was a break from the silence, the shattering, a moment of chaos in a world that now seemed perpetually calm. 

She didn’t step around the shards, rather Caroline consciously stepped on the glass and the photos of faces that were once protected by it as she moved up the steps and towards the small bedroom. She was greeted with large, thick windows when she opened the door and immediately began work. Meticulously, Caroline made the bedspread into a thick curtain, allowing no life or light into the room. She then made her room perimeter check, securing the door and ensuring an escape route in case she were to need it. Caroline peeled off her jacket, re-enforced at the elbows with duck tape; she didn’t bother with the sheen of sweat on her body, it would only return within in hour in the sweltering Georgian heat. She checked the contents of her backpack, counting and inventorying her few remaining supplies on the floor of the bedroom,  
_I’ll need to make a run tomorrow, if I want to say alive._  


Thrusting her backpack behind her as her pillow, she laid down on the wooden floor. Beds were too soft now, to comforting. And the last thing Caroline needed was to be comforted. She was in control. Always.


End file.
